Unsent Letters
by PineappleApproves
Summary: Four years gave the world enough time to recover after the end of the war. While peace settles, a young earthbender leaves the walls of Ba Sing Se to search for his father. On the way, he writes a series of letters—of the sights he sees, the people he meets. Of the siren in the swamp, the town trapped in time, and the killer with the rubber face. Warning: Dark and heavily original.
1. Chapter 1 - Maybe

Maybe writing this was a mistake. Or, not a mistake. More like pointless. But you would have considered them one and the same.

Wouldn't you, Father?

Or… would you have really believed that? I'm not so sure myself—not so certain of who you are anymore. I was 12 when I last saw you. I'm 20 now. Eight years. No wonder your image flickers so weakly in my mind's eye.

And what about you? Do you still remember your Jangzhen? No, I shouldn't refer to myself that way. Not to you. Unfortunately there is no way to remove the ink once it touches parchment, but I won't discard this letter. My thoughts will have to spill out unadulterated into these words. Perhaps it's better that way. You ought to know what I'm thinking. You should know.

Back to my point, Father. Back to whether you remember me or not. I admit, my expectations are not very high. You did not cherish me like Mother did. I will not fault you for that. You weren't a bad father, not from what I can remember. Your lack of affection towards me doesn't bother me.

Your lack towards her does.

You do realize that, for the longest time, I thought you didn't want us? That we had been thrust from the walls of home because you had cast us away? Maybe the former is true, but at least I know the latter isn't. At least Mother had the dignity of choosing to run instead of being discarded. She deserved that much.

You, however?

I'm not so sure.

The image still flickers.

That's why I did it again. Just like eight years ago, I left Ba Sing Se. I passed through its walls and out to the world beyond. But just like Mother, I did it because I had a choice. And just like Mother, I did it because of you.

You weren't in Ba Sing Se when we returned, but I know you're out there. That's why I left.

But let's make this clear—don't think it's like that. I'm not looking for you as I would have if it had been Mother. I do not leave the walls behind me, shrinking in the horizon like a long, winding snake, out of compassion. I want answers, and you have them. And I want you to look me into the eyes when you give them to me.

Why?

And so begins my journey. The sun has passed its midway point, which means sunset is just a few hours away. And then dusk will follow shortly after. I will have to find a place to settle for the night before that. A place to keep me safe from nocturnal predators and to keep my pack safe from scavengers.

See, I know this. For a good part of those eight years, that was my life. Think about that.

The day is warm, and I don't think it will rain. I've stopped to give the ostrich-horse a break. I could feel that it had grown tired, and there is a stream for it to drink from. We will need to move on soon. I want to put as much distance between myself and those walls before daylight fades. I want to find you as soon as possible. I want those answers.

You owe me that much at least.

* * *

It is nighttime now. The sunset was beautiful. The way it plays colors across the sky and how you can feel the air cooling with every passing moment. It was hard to appreciate sunsets back then.

I don't know why I'm telling you this.

The new kindling I placed into the fire has finally begun steadily burning. The reinvigorated flames have brightened the pocket of light surrounding my campsite. It eases my writing as I compose this letter to you, Father.

I've put about 25 miles between myself and Ba Sing Se. A whole day's travel. Nothing happened as I rode. There was naught but the vast landscape and sparse trees. Earth Kingdom for miles around. The worn, faded road and the patchy sky. It gave me plenty of opportunity to reflect. I tried to make that image of you stop flickering. I thought a lot of my childhood—of my life before I turned 12.

I liked how it was back then. I had everything. I was happy.

I'm not bitter about losing status. Losing wealth. That would make me like you, and I can't have that. I won't be like you.

But you don't know what it was like after that. What she was like after that.

Shen was born on the side of the road. Did you know that? She wouldn't stop walking until the pain was too much for her. I thought she was going to die. She could've.

Did you know that? Would you have even cared?

I kind of hope you do, but like I said—expectations aren't very high.

An owl is hooting. It sounds pretty far, but I can still hear it. Tomorrow, I want to be able to reach the next village over. I've got it marked on my map. My entire route is laid out on this map. One of these lines will bring me to you.

It's getting late.

* * *

I realized I mentioned Shen in my last letter, but didn't go into depth. I was tired last night. I'd had a full day's travel weighing down on me.

You never met Shen. You knew he was on the way. He was starting to show when we thundered through that gate. The ostrich-horse was terrified and frenzied because Mother was whipping the reins so hard.

I need to stop writing about that day. Stop thinking about it. It's behind me now, just like the walls. Like Mother and Shen.

Qianshao is a small village. Very small. You could stand on one edge and see the other. The homes are small, almost like huts. It smells a bit. Like humans. Like civilization. Livestock wander the streets and it's so bizarre. But it's nothing I haven't seen before.

I only meant to stay just long enough to refill my water at the well. People were watching me, distrust in their eyes. I think they could tell I was from the capital. My clothes aren't extravagant—just a dark pine vest and black pants. I knew I'd be traveling for a while. But the straight stitching, the unfrayed edges, told them everything.

I get it, though. I get that distrust in their eyes. Have you ever spent any time in small villages, Father? Scarce of resource and devoid of any luxury? Surrounded by desperate people? That's the worst part. Not the dirt or the hunger. The people.

They demanded payment when I went to refill my waterskin. I did, although now thinking back… Maybe I shouldn't have. Would it have been better to plant my feet down and stand my ground? I thought paying was the right thing to do. I was taking water from their well, so I was giving something back in return.

They didn't see it that way.

In those eight years, I learned so, _so_ much about us. People. I saw the darkest, ugliest parts of humanity. I was just a kid. You come to realize people have such different eyes. Through them, they see a completely different world than the one you gaze at. I think that's something most people struggle to understand—they don't realize that everyone has different eyes.

But you learn. You learn when you find those people who come across a tired, hungry woman with a baby in one arm and leading a young boy with another, and instead see an easy opportunity to rob. And Father, there were too many people like that.

Some thieves can be forgiven. Some don't want to harm, just to get by. Some don't have a choice. But the ones that target the defenseless—those can't be forgiven. The ones that tried to kill Shen and me, and hurt Mother in ways they couldn't hurt us.

Unfortunately for them, she wasn't as defenseless as they'd thought. She did horrible things to them. But she had no choice.

Did I have a choice last night?

It was nighttime when they came for me. They tried to be quiet, but their steps awoke me. But by then, they were too close. I didn't know what was happening. Drowsiness sat in my head like thick sludge but my heart was racing. I didn't recognize them at first, and I think that's what saved me.

Most of my belongings had already been snatched up. One of them was pulling my ostrich-horse away. They were thieves. I was scared, and my first instinct was to attack. Earth lunged at them as I bent it. Some of them were earthbenders too. But none of them were trained, and I was.

I think I hurt one, but they all managed to get away. Even though I was just defending myself, and the belongings I no longer had, I still felt remorse. I didn't mean to hurt him, but…

Now most of my things are gone. I think you would've blamed me—said the same thing you said to Mother. Well, sorry to let you down.

They left my pens and parchment. Didn't find any need to take them, I guess. They didn't seem like the scholarly types anyway.

Having to travel by foot is a major setback. I'm taking the time to write this letter as I rest my feet. The sun is grueling. The scraps of supplies that remained and the shade of this tree are all I have left.

And these letters. Letters to nowhere.

I'll need to find something soon. A village that isn't full of assholes. Some outpost to stock up and maybe get another ostrich-horse. For now, I'll keep walking until I come upon my stroke of luck.

* * *

An old town. Not as big as Ba Sing Se, but still big enough to get lost in. Personally, I'd never been to the capital's Lower Ring, but I've heard what it's like. And this place fits that description, this old, seedy town.

A small gaggle of men eyed me as I entered, watching me like birds of prey. But they didn't say anything, nor did they approach. I think they were accustomed to gauging the value of someone at first glance—whether they were worth the trouble over what they had. They could tell I had next to nothing. I'm sure they could also tell I was an earthbender.

I'm grateful I was pushed so hard during my training.

My money had all been taken and I couldn't afford a room at the inn. However, the innkeeper let me stay up in the stable's loft. He's giving me a place to stay and some supplies in exchange for a few days of work. My first stroke of luck. Took a few days, but I finally got it.

Did you ever imagine your son would have to resort to manual labor, Father? I wonder how you would've reacted. No, truly. I do.

So here I sit, amidst stacks of dusty straw, old tack, and rust-caked lanterns that have long since retired from illuminating the night. Below come the endless caws of ostrich-horses, the rustling of their beaks in the feeding troughs, and the thuds as they kick in their stalls. It's not the coziest of living spaces—certainly not comparable to the estate. But it's shelter, and the innkeeper didn't have to provide me with it.

The sun is setting on my second day here. Instead of a fire, the crystalline lamp I took from Ba Sing Se wards off the dark as I write. It's dim, but it does the job.

Today's work was mucking the stalls and polishing stirrups. It was only my second day, but I got the swing of it and finished early. Decided to take a walk around town and see what it was like.

You really get a feel for a place when you discover what people do for fun. Tavern after tavern. The acrid duet of alcohol and vomit lingered around each. I'll admit, I'm curious to see just how strong their drinks can get. One of these days, I might stop by.

And then there was one building that reeked more than the others. The dulcet stench made me dizzy. A pair of them, women of the night, stood in front of the doors with fluttering fans and coy smiles. Scantily clad. Living advertisement for what lay beyond those doors. Every movement they made honeyed the air with that overpowering perfume.

I stopped. I couldn't help it. My eyes were fixated in a stare of wonder and curiosity and shock. They spotted me quickly and their smiles turned sharp and fixated. They angled their shoulders in a way that suddenly made me feel cornered even though we were standing on an open street. They invited me over, asking me if there was something I wanted.

I was tempted. I'm ashamed to admit that. Fortunately I had no money on me. I told them I had to get back. I'd seen enough of the town anyway,

That's when I heard it, Father.

The creaking started just as I turned away. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before. It didn't sound like the shrill whine of an old hinge, or the groan of a turning wheel. It was guttural, almost like a growl. I turned back.

They had heard it too, those prostitutes. Their fans had stopped fluttering. Fear was on their painted faces. Their eyes darted to me, wide and terrified. They told me to go, and then they themselves began shrinking back to the brothel doors.

I left. That creaking, whatever it was, felt bad. I went straight back to the stables and shut the doors behind me only to be greeted by the crowing of ostrich-horses. The creaking had gone.

But now that I have a moment to sit and think back on it, I realize something.

That sound was growing louder. Whatever was making it had been moving towards me.

What had it been, Father?

Maybe I'm overthinking things. It could have been the police wagon patrolling the streets at night, and the women had fled to avoid being harassed. That's all there was, right? I wish I could ask you. You were clever, a

Father. That feeling you get when you're being watched—I had it just now. And I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I could have sworn… someone was standing outside on the street. I saw them out of the corner of my eye from the window next to me. Someone was standing there and I felt eyes on me.

I've looked at this window a million times and I still see nothing. I never saw anything except from out of my peripheral vision.

This is ridiculous. It's getting late.

I don't think I'll stay any longer in this town than I need to.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Vagabond

It has been weeks since my last letter, Father. So much has happened. I've not had a moment of peace to sit and put it all down into words until now. At first, I was worried that as soon as the blank paper confronted me, I would have trouble recalling the events of the past weeks.

I have no trouble at all. The memories haunt me—ghosts that venture out of the darkness and stand solid in the daylight. I fear these specters will not leave me any time soon.

My last letter ended at the town with the brothel. That seems like lifetimes ago now.

There are things, Father, in this world in which we will never understand. Things that go beyond the comforts of logic and reason. These comforts have made us lethargic. Maybe this has upset some higher being, and so they send down these anomalies—these disruptions—to remind us that all is not good in the world. The gods, maybe?

I do not think even the gods are capable of this.

Hei Shui was a sinner in village form—bleak, dismal, and yet still clinging to any hope of redemption. There was even a statue of Nüwa in the center—the Mother Goddess. I remember her from the lessons of my private tutor when I was a boy. I've clung to the education I was given as a child. Knowledge is what separates us from animals.

Nüwa created mankind. Some even go as far as to say she connected us to nature, binding our chi with it, so that bending was naturally inherent within us. All it took was the gift of the lion-turtles to fully unlock our abilities.

That's how the stories go. Yes, stories. That's all they are. Call me sacrilegious, Father, but I've experienced too much to be reconnected to what is holy.

Nüwa faced the east, towards the horizon the sun rose from. It was probably some symbolic choice. She wore an elaborate, multi-layered robe that came down and touched her pedestal. Her hair was tied up and hidden under a wide, beaded headdress. One hand was held up in front of her, palm up, and I could see a tiny, humanoid shape emerging from it. Mankind.

Gray buildings slouched as though tired. I saw curious eyes peer at me from windows before disappearing. The air felt strange—taut, like two hands had gripped either side and had pulled it near to the point of tearing. I almost felt as though I couldn't draw breath. Notes drifted through the air. Someone was playing a flute.

There were no inns there. At first I planned to remain there for the day and gain a little respite before moving on and setting up camp at nightfall. But staying in that grim little village seemed tiring in its own regard.

I found the player of the flute—an old vagabond. He sat on a low brick wall, a blanket draped over his legs even though it was warm. He didn't stop playing as I approached, though he did give me a nod. My first acknowledgement in this gray village.

I perched on the wall and waited for him to finish his song. He, Father, would have repulsed you. He was a vagrant in every sense of the word—clothes worn until the threads were bare and patchy, dry skin that had been scorched too often by the sun's unrelenting touch, and unkempt hair that extended, scraggly and clumped, from both his head and his chin. He was a thoroughly unpleasant man.

Only physically, though.

I waited. Notes came from his old flute—shaky, clumsy notes. His fingers moved over the body of the flute as though he did not have full control over them. Still, within the awkward sounds, there was a song there.

Even after the tune's conclusion, I waited to let him be the first to speak. He did, and I'll never forget his first words to me.

"So." The flute lowered. "What made you stop in a place like this?"

I hadn't thought much of his words then.

My answer to him was that I had traveled a long way, and needed a place to stop. He shrugged and picked at the mouthpiece of his flute.

"Why've you come so far from the capital, boy?" Bewildered, I looked down, unable to figure out how people were still able to tell. Weeks of sun, sweat, and repeated washings in whatever body of water I could find had dulled the clothing's color and tarnished any glimmer of fineness away. It was then the vagabond continued that it wasn't my clothes that gave it away.

"It's the way you carry yourself," he told me.

I told him he had a keen eye, and he only shrugged again. He said he was still waiting for an answer. Perhaps you would have been angered by his demeanor towards one of much higher standing, Father, but this one had a hidden wisdom to him. Next to this filthy, crinkled man, I couldn't help but feel like a child again.

"I'm looking for someone," I told him. My words were met with silence. He continued to fiddle with his flute. Normally, I would always receive that follow up question—who? Not with this one. He let it be with that, and I couldn't help but ask why.

"I figured if you wanted me to know, you would have told me." He raised his flute and played another song.

We sat there, never exchanging another word, until I realized it was getting late in the day and needed to restock on food before the merchants packed everything up. I'd stood and only taken one step when the vagabond behind me said, "Hold up, boy."

I turned back to look at him and he nodded his head. Towards Nüwa, I realized. "Aren't you going to pay your respects, first?" He didn't sound like he was demanding me to. Instead, he asked as though he were merely curious.

This time I shrugged. We were never a pious family, were we, Father? The gods we worshipped weren't the same as the man of faith's.

"Why?" I hadn't meant to sound disrespectful. I was curious myself.

The vagabond wasn't offended, anyhow. He barked what sounded like a laugh, and replied, "Why, indeed?"

* * *

Rain came shortly after I'd arrived at the village, which meant I couldn't leave. Not if I wanted to avoid muddy paths sucking at the soles of my feet and drenched clothes. Having your undergarments become wet is the worst. Not that you would know anything beyond mild discomfort, Father.

The overcast clouds did little to change the already somber setting of the village. When it rained, the old vagabond let me take shelter with him under an overhanging roof. It was just wide enough shield one person from the rain. With two, we were only partially protected. He made no comment of this burden.

The kindness of strangers, though a dangerous thing to depend upon, is always a nice thing to be offered.

He would play his flute while rain pattered overhead. I watched droplets stream down the Nüwa statue. The water had cut black lines down her face. I remember them well.

Whenever the rain relented, I would venture out and gather whatever supplies I could. This village didn't have much. But what it did have was a barn. And inside was a perfectly good ostrich-horse. I didn't want to travel on foot anymore.

Of course, the steed wouldn't come for free. The owner wanted services in return for the animal. More specifically, they wanted my earthbending. Hei Shui didn't have an earthbender. The tasks they asked of me were mostly things they couldn't do without expending a lot of time and labor—clearing rocks from the crop fields, unclogging the well, and casting away any mud the rain had dislodged. I don't think they realized earthbending could do more than move rocks, but I wasn't about to tell them. The sooner I got my ostrich-horse, the sooner I could leave.

If only I could have left sooner.

One day the wife of the man I worked for approached me. In a hushed voice, she told me she and the other villagers had noticed that I had been spending time around _him._ She didn't refer to him by more than that, but I knew whom she spoke of.

I shrugged—an unfortunate habit I'd picked up from him.

A shadow seemed to darken her eyes. Her voice turned into a hiss as she told me that I should avoid him at any cost. "He's a leech among our people. We keep the windows locked and our senses attentive, lest he come for our daughters like a coyote to lambs!"

Her words shocked me. Never had I once felt endangered around the vagabond. But then again, I wasn't a woman. I asked if he had ever hurt anyone in the village.

"We fear the day he grows lecherous enough to attack us in our own homes," was all she could say. Then, with two open hands, she gestured towards the center of the village. "And he mocks her, the Holy Mother!" I looked to Nüwa, still with her body turned towards the east and her palm facing upward. "His pagan disrespect angers her! The days turn dark when she scowls!"

I'll admit, Father. Her words sounded utterly ridiculous—like listening to the ramblings of a madman. But I was more startled than bemused. I asked her what she meant. There are days, she told me, where the sky turns dark and the face of that statue twists into a look of fury.

"We are forced," she said, "to fall upon our knees and beg for forgiveness." Then, in a sour voice, she added, "We should not have to grovel for that vile fool's mistakes."

Call me naïve, Father, but I think that any god that demands worship in the form of groveling is no god at all.

Maybe he already realized that.

* * *

When I asked him about the scowling, I had to wait a good minute for him to stop laughing before he would answer me. Then he asked me if I really believed that the Nüwa statue could scowl.

"I'm an earthbender," I told him. "And that statue is made of stone. I suppose I could make it scowl."

"You'd make these good people wail on their knees and slap their foreheads on the ground 'til they knocked what little sense they had left out."

I laughed. It was raining, and there was no one around.

Finally, I dared to ask him what was wrong with the village. The flute circled around in his hands, and he said, "You mean that feeling? The one like you're being stretched out too thin?"

That was exactly the feeling.

"There's something about this place," the vagabond said. "Something that gnaws at people—whittles at them like a woodcarver. People want to leave. Most can't—don't got the means or have young ones that wouldn't survive life on the road."

I couldn't help but think of Mother as he said that. Shen and I were lucky to have her.

"You seem like the least ignorant out of everyone," I said to him. "Why don't you leave? You must know how these people feel about you."

The vagabond showed me something. He finally lifted the blanket—the one I saw always draped over his lap. They had hidden thin, crooked legs. Knees that were bent in angles they should not have. I understood.

I asked him if he would tell me how it happened. With a shrug, he replied, "No harm in divulging that."

An impending storm had come upon Hei Shui one day. The clouds were blacker than ever. A boy was playing on the street. Further down the road, a heavy cart holding grain was waiting to be taken to the market in the next village, though the farmer was still wondering whether he ought to make the trip or not.

As if to answer him, a crack of thunder came from the angry clouds. The ostrich-horse hitched to the cart bayed as though it had been struck by a whip and took off with the cart. It flew down the street, towards the boy.

It was likely they would have lost that child had it not been for the man who ran up and threw him out of the way. It all happened quickly. Too quickly. The ostrich-horse barreled into the man, knocking him onto the ground. The cart's wheels rolled over his legs, shattering the bones. They never healed properly.

It had been such a selfless act, and he'd lost so much from it. I thought about how I'd feel if something like that had happened to me. If it took my bending away, I don't know if I'd be able to move on.

The boy's parents had owed him so much. I asked him whether anyone had helped him afterwards. The vagabond only shrugged.

"No one? No one at all?"

"The boy," he answered, and lifted the flute.

I said nothing. We sat in silence for a good while, listening to the rain. The vagabond played another song. He knew many.

Finally, I asked, "Where is the boy?"

"Gone," came the reply. "Left as soon as his parents got the chance." With his flute, the vagabond gestured around us. "If you went into any of these homes, I promise you that you'll find a jar or box holding the hopes of everyone in that household—saved up money promising the chance for escape. But those jars hold more dust than coins now. People have misplaced their hope. A new life is a very real possibility in those jars, but people are now investing their hope in the wrong thing. That." He pointed his flute accusingly at the statue amidst the downpour. "When you do nothing but kneel in front of a hunk of rock and ask it to deliver you a better life, you're going to get nothing but delusion and disappointment in return."

I gazed at the statue—a dark figure amidst the gray. I stared, and the vagabond began playing another song. This time, I didn't wait for him to finish.

"What if I'm like them?" I asked. He stopped playing. I knew he was waiting for me to continue. "I'm looking for my father," I told him. "I don't know where he is. If he's still alive. All I can count on is the movement of my feet and the hope that I'll find him. I need to find him."

And then I told him, Father. I told him everything about you. About Mother and Ba Sing Se. About me.

Do you remember what I told you when I was a little boy? I said I wanted to be like you—I wanted to be a Dai Li agent because I thought they were something to be looked up to. Guardians of the city. Created by Avatar Kyoshi herself.

I guess we all make mistakes, don't we?

When we returned to Ba Sing Se after the end of the war, I made that dream into a reality. They took me in all too quickly—Jangzhen, the eager pup. With any luck, he'll be just like his father.

I'm not. They were wrong about me. That's why I'm out here instead. I was so close, too close, to following in your footsteps. After Mother disbanded the Dai Li, I spent days thinking. Just thinking. And then I knew that this was what I had to do.

I told the vagabond all of this and he listened. Then he said he didn't see why this made me like the villagers. I replied that maybe I was clinging onto false hope—you. I keep telling myself that all this doubt and guilt stewing instead of me will lift once I find you.

He shrugged. "You're looking for someone," he said. "Not sure that it's him." He raised his flute to his lips, but not before adding, "And you should know you're only hurting yourself by choosing to stay bitter."

I was silent. He played another song.


End file.
